


I Think You’re Rather Wonderful

by lifeinaperceptionfilter



Category: Upstairs Downstairs (2011)
Genre: F/F, Masturbation, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-10
Updated: 2013-12-10
Packaged: 2018-01-04 06:24:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,409
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1077666
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lifeinaperceptionfilter/pseuds/lifeinaperceptionfilter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Blanche knows nothing of the late night visits Agnes makes to her room.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Think You’re Rather Wonderful

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kingstonmcbride](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kingstonmcbride/gifts).



She has a problem.  She knows she does, but she can’t seem to resist the temptation.  Every night for the past fortnight Agnes has been stealing into Blanche’s room.  She doesn’t do anything, really.  She just likes to sit and watch Blanche sleep.  There had always been something about Blanche, something that drew Agnes to her.  Since the dissolution of her marriage she has found her thoughts turning more and more often to the archeologist.  She knows she must be careful.  Blanche has not had an easy life.  From her family’s rejection to the awful way Lady Portia treated her, it seems no one has put Blanche’s needs and wellbeing above their own.  Agnes wishes she could change all of that.  The woman deserves so much better.  She wishes she was strong enough herself to treat Blanche as she needs, to put her on a pedestal and lavish her with attention and love.  Her attraction for the curly haired woman had grown consistently since she’d moved into the house.  Even before Agnes had discovered Hallam’s unfaithfulness she had noticed a faint stirring low in her belly and a tingling between her legs that had her squeezing her thighs together when Blanche was in the room.

She can hear her own breath in the stillness of Blanche’s room, can hear how it is growing shallow and picking up speed as her eyes wander over what she can see of Blanche’s form.  Her mind wanders as well.  Wanders and wonders.  She wonders what the skin on Blanche’s hip would feel like under her hand.  She wonders what color her areolas are, how sensitive her nipples are.  She squeezes her legs together as she feels her own nipples grow erect against the silky fabric of her dressing gown.

Oh, yes.  She definitely has a problem.  What she is doing is so wrong.  Sneaking into Blanche’s room as she slept, sitting clad only in her dressing gown and watching her sleep.  Growing wet as she fantasizes about all the ways in which she’d love to touch Blanche, would love to have her touch her.  Thus far she’s never done more than sit and watch and get more and more turned on, scampering back to her room before dawn to take herself in hand before the servants rise for the day.  Oh, and now she understands the look Blanche had bestowed upon her when she’d used that same phrase those many months ago.  She isn’t as naïve as she had been.  The war has forced everyone to gain a little more worldly wisdom, and the other women she’s been volunteering with had taught her all sorts of interesting slang.

Blanche makes a low noise in her throat, almost a purr, and Agnes watches her face wondering what she’s dreaming about, who she is dreaming about.  She wishes it was her.  Blanche shifts in her sleep.  She must be too warm because she pushes at the covers until they settle at her waist, and Agnes gasps.  Apparently Blanche Mottershead sleeps nude.  Agnes raises a clenched fist to her mouth and bites down on a knuckle.  She can see Blanche’s nipples hardening at the change in temperature.  They are lovely buds, larger than her own, and Agnes has to swallow as her mouth waters.  How she would love to lave those nipples with her tongue, to take first one and then the other into her mouth and suck just to hear Blanche’s response. 

Agnes looks down to discover that quite without her permission her hands have begun to run over her own breasts, tweaking the nipples through her dressing gown.  She ought to stop now, but the feeling is delicious and she doesn’t really want to stop.  She licks her lips and with trembling hands unties the knot holding her dressing gown closed.  It falls open and her skin is bathed in the moonlight that streams in through the curtains.  She looks back to Blanche who sleeps on peacefully, unaware of the amorous intruder in her room.

Agnes’ heart rate picks up as she drags her eyes over Blanche’s body.  She wishes the other woman would kick away the remaining covers.  Already she has seen more of Blanche’s body than she ever had before, but she finds she is greedy.  She wants to see the swell of her naked hips, the coarse curls between her legs.  Agnes trails a hand down her own body, coming to rest on the wiry hair above her sex.  She parts her legs and can immediately smell her own arousal.  One hand comes up to cup a breast, pinching the nipple between thumb and forefinger.  The other hand dips between her thighs.  Her fingers skate over slick flesh.  She stifles a moan at the sensation.  Her solitary sessions have been quite intense when she thinks about Blanche, but they hold no candle to the feelings sweeping through her body with Blanche in the very same room.  She can and does look directly at her as she strokes down to her entrance, gathering the wetness there and spreading it over her folds.  The sensation is divine.  She removes her hand from her breast, bringing it to her mouth to coat her fingers and thumb with saliva.  When she returns the digits to her pert nipple, she gives a quiet gasp, imagining Blanche’s full lips wrapped around it, licking and sucking as she flicks a finger over the bud and then tugs on it lightly.

The hand between her thighs is not idle, stroking lightly and teasingly at first but soon picking up speed.  She circles her clit as she studies Blanche’s face, her thoughts full of intertwined limbs and exploring fingers and tongues.  She feels delectably naughty, stroking herself here in Blanche’s room with the lady herself not three feet away.  She wonders what Blanche’s mouth would feel like on her wet folds.  She’s heard of the act but never experienced it.  Hallam had never been what one could describe as a generous lover.  She imagines looking down her own body to see thick curls and flashing green eyes between her thighs.  She bites back a whimper as more fluid seeps out of her.  She should’ve brought a towel to sit on, but things had never gotten this out of hand before.  She finds she really isn’t all that concerned about the wet stain that surely must be growing beneath her.  She is far too wrapped up in thoughts of Blanche.  The hand at her chest switches to the neglected breast, and the fingers between her legs give a few quick flicks to her clit before she plunges two of them into her heat.  She can’t help the small cry that leaves her lips and immediately stills both hands, studying the woman in bed carefully to see if the noise woke her.  Blanche is apparently a very deep sleeper.

Agnes squeezes the breast in one hand as she curls the fingers of the other and shudders.  Oh, she wishes it were Blanche’s fingers buried deep inside her.  She has a feeling the archeologist would know just how and where to touch her.  She could probably make Agnes come more quickly than she can herself.  She begins a quick rhythm, plunging her fingers inside herself over and over and grinding her palm into her clit.  She can feel her inner walls begin to tighten down around her fingers and a low moan escapes her before she can help it.  She is too far gone to even care at this point and merely increases the pace of her fingers, her hips circling and her breath coming in harsh pants.  She is teetering on the edge when Blanche begins to stir, eyelids cracking open and blinking as she attempts to focus them.  She wakes quickly then, her eyes taking in the scene before her.  When Blanche’s eyes lock with Agnes’, it is more than the brunette can take.  She shatters suddenly, her gaze never shifting from Blanche’s as one hand works furiously between her legs while the other squeezes at her breast.  She rides the waves of her orgasm for what seems like an eternity, the intensity ratcheted up by how Blanche is staring at her, her expression caught somewhere between surprise and lust.  When she finally collapses back into her chair Blanche raises an eyebrow at her and rakes her eyes over Agnes’ nudity.

“Well, that is certainly a nice way to wake up.”


End file.
